The eyes of some of the fans…scare me. There's no light in them. Fixed emotions. Blind worship. Horror. It makes me think of what happened to us long ago.

-Boris Becker

They come from all over the world. Different colors, different creeds, different genders, but they all come for the same reason. They all use different tactics to win the prize. Flowers, food, music, poetry, art, but none of them ever succeed; many lose their lives. The prey is too clever for their tactics, too detached. One must think like the beast to acquire him. Cold, calculating reason will prevail.

I've been watching him for months, marking his actions, his moves. I have every nervous twitch, every spasm of his purple stained wrist down. He's amazing in a fight, forward assaults are his specialty; he wastes no gesture, and no move is unnecessary. He is a bloody ballerina and the battlefield is his stage. He despises weakness in others, and he will not abide it in himself.

That's what the others don't realize. He'll let most of the pathetic ones go, but the ones that beg, the ones that whine, they are the ones that die. He can't stand to let them touch his immaculate facade. One caress of that snowy mane, one tap of that silky garb is certain death. Just to stroke that fur… Some believe that it is a worthy demise, but I want so much more.

I gaze at his beautiful face through the scope of my rifle. Soon my darling, soon. Normal weapons won't work here. He is weaker against projectile attacks, but he can hear even a muffled gun shot from miles away. My weapon and location where chosen with great care. I waited months for this convention; the nearby train depot is situated between him and my rooftop position. My air rifle is primed and my missile waxed to cut down on air friction. It's all about noise reduction when your quarry has ears like his.

I watch patiently as the fans flood in, ask their questions, scream their adoration and offer their inadequate gifts. He struggles to keep his face impassive, but through my scope I can see his wrist twitch with barely contained annoyance and bloodlust. The muscles of his fingers curl into his sleeve to hide the menace of his claws. Soon it will all be over.

Then, security drags them away. Many will conceal themselves at the exits, hoping to catch a moment with him unguarded to declare their adulation. Others will return home to frantically develop their film and Photoshop themselves to his side. I wait. Security leaves him along on the open stage. No one left to interfere, perfect. After all they are there for the fans' safety, not his. He can protect himself; they are there to reduce fatalities. The train pulls into the station; he frowns in annoyance as the clattering, squealing commotion assaults his ears. I take my shot. I've been training a long time for this moment.

The look of surprise on his face as the dart's contents empties into his body causes my stomach to do a little flip. I slide down the banner rope from my rooftop and land with catlike grace on the stage. At his side at last. His eyes are sleepy in his half aware state as I load him into the waiting van. “Nick, lets go.” I call to my accomplice, but she is already throwing the truck into gear and we move quickly into traffic and out of the city.

I kneel down at his side. His droopy eyes make him look so vulnerable as I brush his glossy hair away from his face. His skin is silky under my fingers. Better than my dreams. “Sesshomaru-sama, it is so good to finally meet you. My name is Tonya, and I'm you biggest fan.”